


Lace and Dreadnaughts

by Jupiterra



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Brandenburg - Freeform, FTM Germany, Gerita has landed!, Gore, HRE theory (kind of), Historical Hetalia, M/M, Nazis, Smoking, Trans Character, War, War Crimes, World War I, World War II, fruk in chapter 7, gilbert likes to monologue, parenting is hard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:27:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23432398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jupiterra/pseuds/Jupiterra
Summary: HRE has been brutally murdered. Prussia stands alone against Napoleon's wrath. He discovers a baby in the scorched battlefield. Follow Germany's journey to the present day as he deals with war, politics, and gender.Note: I am not a historian, but I'm trying for accuracy here. Don't shit your pants if I make a mistake.
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia), Germany/North Italy (Hetalia)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 41





	1. Chapter 1

**August 6, 1806**

The hearing was solemn as news of Holy Roman Emperor Francis II spread. It burned across the heart of Europe, expected after such a crushing defeat at Napoleon's men. Buildings burned, art stolen, and another shaky power fallen.

Gilbert could only look on as the death toll of another sibling rang on. He was alone in his study, looking outward from one of a dozen castles on the Rhine. The pale nation had been technically under the Holy Roman Empire's control for centuries.

HRE, better known as Ludwig, had been Gilbert's last baby brother. Along with Brandenburg, they were the last direct children of Father Germania. Cousins, city states, nephews and loved ones had been lost to the grinding teeth of time.

Brandenburg had adapted, looking okay for his age. It was hard to look youthful when you were several centuries old. Maybe Gilbert and Brandenburg never saw eye to eye on every topics. They were still family. Brandenburg, disguised as a human blacksmith named Claude for now, seemed happy enough. Gilbert also represented a group of Germanic peoples, though he wasn't acknowledged at all by his Austrian ass of a cousin. That _jerk_.

In comparison, HRE had to cling to tradition and died like a rat. God only knew if the stubborn bastard survived his latest massacre. Now there was nothing stopping Napoleon on several fronts.

Not even a good ale could wash away Gilbert's sorrows. Several nobles had dropped off paperwork for Gilbert's newly acquired statehood. The grieving commander didn't have the heart to read them. His greater power had come at the cost of another dead brother.

There was a knock on the reinforced wood door. “My liege, more reports of battlefield collection are in.”

Gilbert rose from his writing desk, chugging back the rest of his drink. It wouldn't work for long, given his nation borne regeneration. Still, it would be escape from this time of death. “I'm busy. Don't bother me with counts of the dead.”

“Sir, it's very important.” The door was pushed open a crack from the other side. The in-house servants were getting so cocky in the fall of theocracy.

The iron stein was slammed on the wooden desk, empty. Gilbert didn't want to think about this shit right now. “Unless you found Ludwig's body, I'm not interested in your pandering accounting!”

The door was fully opened now, a very harassed butler in the doorway. He held a baby wrapped in a black, red, and gold blanket. “Your brother's body was ashes after the french burned everything. The only survivor was this infant. A cavalier found it in the remains.”

God, there was survivors from Napoleon's victory? Gilbert approached slowly, cautious. Alive since the fall of the Roman empire, he didn't like getting attached to humans. He had been rebel tribes, the Templar, and now represented Prussia. Gilbert didn't have time for humanity when he was bathing in the blood of eternal war. It was his only hobby.

Still, this baby was special. It likely survived being on fire. Gilbert could afford to investigate this mystery further. He took the child at arms length, unpracticed in handling anything but horses. The baby blinked at him, swaddled like fresh bread in a basket.

“I will leave things with you, my liege.” The servant exited as Gilbert sputtered.

“I don't even know what to do with it!” The battle hardened immortal whined down the stairs. There was no pity for him from the working peasantry.

Huffing in defeat, Gilbert set the baby down on the bed. “Listen here fire proof baby. You are my subordinate. You will train as I command.”

The infant burst into tears, obviously soiling itself at his stern military voice.

“No no no! Nice baby, cute baby! Don't...” Gilbert scrambled to hush the child, completely inexperienced. This entire encounter was terrifying to him.

Well. It seemed the mystery baby was a girl. Now Gilbert had to figure out how to change a diaper.


	2. Chapter 2

**July 12, 1809**

Gilbert returned from another successful war campaign. Spoils of victory were hauled back in wooden wagons stolen from the french. The blackened iron gates of the barbican finally rose, allowing Gilbert passage into one of his many favourite castles. Accompanying the stuffed wagons, he was greeted by the usual courtiers and admirers.

Brandenburg was among the welcoming party, looking not so welcome. His brown beard was braided with red ribbon, tufted and tortured. Gilbert sneered as he slid off his horse. Attendants took the exhausted white steed away for him.

“Claude, looking un-awesome.”

The older brother snarled back. “I am not a babysitter. I am a respected state official and you can't dump Louise on me every time you have the urge to stab your neighbours.”

Gilbert had almost never taken Brandenburg's snarls seriously. “France started it by being a dick. Besides... Last time I checked, your people used _my_ military to reinforce the border with limp-dick Poland.”

Claude steamed, furrowing his brows. “Limp-dick Poland, who would be happy to wear me as a coat.”

“That's your fault for not training with me as much... so where is my little bratwurst?” Gilbert didn't care about Brandenburg's moody bullshit today. The guy needed to get a sense of humour sometimes. Gilbert wanted to see his baby sister after cutting through fields of french flesh with hate and blood.

On cue, little Louise ran down the court steps. “Gil!” The baby born from ashes was now a healthy blonde girl, with eyes just like fallen Ludwig. The resemblance was uncanny. She was obviously an immortal representation of a city or a state within Gilbert's mass. The question was, which one?

“My little schnitzel! I missed you!” Gilbert cooed, scooping her up. She was roughly the developmental level of a four year old human, with notable strength. She would have to be trained soon, lest the furniture should survive.

“I braided Claude's face!” Louise giggled, holding tight as she was swung around.

“You did an awesome job, Louise.” The girl was carried in over a shoulder, wiggling and happy in strong grip.

After stripping off the last of his heavy armour, Gilbert settled in his baby sister's room. There she played with only the best of toys from the kingdom. Being related to Austria sometimes sucked cow turds, but the lavish imports were welcome.

Louise had wooden horses, dollies, and play swords. She had leathers and wool to delight her. Watching the nation youth play, Gilbert smiled gently. He would do anything to protect this child. He was certain she was a reborn Holy Roman Empire, even if the gender was flipped. The eyes, face, and hair were identical.

The relationship with HRE had been tenuous at best. They never stopped arguing, and came to blows before the empire was butchered. Having another shot at a better sibling, a Prussia influenced one, was irresistible to the military power.

Done playing on her wooden horse, she dropped heavily in his lap. “Big brother Gil, tell me story.”

The elder nation chuckled, hugging her close. “What kind of story do you want?”

“Tell me about the... The Holy Roman... Emp-p-pire.” At this solemn request, she looked up with those big blue eyes. It was enough to steal Gilbert's heart. Such a cute if misguided darling.

“Let's hear about when I was the glorious Templar Knights instead.”

Louise would be enchanted for ages by the tale, unknowing of her own origins. She would never learn of the bastard she likely used to be. She would never again boss Gilbert around.

The child was innocent as she looked up her mentor. “O-okay.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Spring, 1871**

Louise sat by the window, brooding. She had developed into a beautiful young woman, and a new nation. Today was her founding party, one of dozens taking place throughout the territory. Big brother Prussia, Brandenburg, and even estranged Austria were coming.

She finally had power as the newly minted German Empire, yet there was something wrong. She looked to her full length mirror in disgust, eyeing the alien figure. Her rather angular figure was feminized with corset, boning, and brocade. Meagre breasts were framed by frills and embroidery. Her skirt was impractically long, trailing as it housed layers of structure and tufting. Her hair was braided into a structure resembling a bee hive, tucked with ribbon and flowers. The entire ensemble took hours, sparing scant privacy before the ball.

Basically, Louise hated it. She was a pragmatic creature, despising the pageantry of her new image.

She couldn't ride a horse in this mess. She couldn't run out of, or into combat. She could barely jog, given how tight her dress shoes were laced up. God save her if the spring weather became unreasonably humid. Given how fickle the green land of the Rhine was, this was very possible.

There was a sharp precise knock on the door, none other than Gilbert. “Can I come in, my schnitzel?”

“Yes, if you must. I look like a horse's behind.” The young woman complained, utterly miserable.

The older brother was beginning to look his age these days. His hair was near white from time, and a few war injuries cost him his once youthful reflexes. Still, he was a ferocious fighter. Gilbert was equally as garbed in tassels, textures and buttons. The only difference was that he embraced it.

“Oh you look like an angel!” he gushed, not daring to touch her layered hair. He knew from witnessing Hungary's private make-up torture that female beauty took hours.

“I look like a noble's pin cushion.”

Gilbert dismissed her open misery. “My first independent kingdom was born from the blood of my murdered father. I thought you'd be happy you didn't have to kill anyone.”

Louise was not persuaded by his old stories. She had heard of his glory constantly and sometimes tired of it. “It's not that, I'm... I just hate it okay? I can barely breathe in this.”

“Ooh poor Louise, becoming an empire is so hard.” He teased her, for he had every right to.

The German empire glared at him, saying nothing.

Prussia took his stern sister's expression with ease. “Get a sense of humour before we leave, there will be little in supply at the ball.”

Louise stood, accepting her fate with a cold frown. “I don't have enough room to breathe, let alone laugh.”

“That's the battlefield spirit!” With this, the new empire was dragged out of her room. Guided to her private carriage, The German Empire's long trail was gathered by Prussia. They sat in silence as they were brought to the ball. The sour mood was yet to be quelled until they passed the royal training grounds.

Louise was magnetized to the scene, hordes of men training with blade and fist. She had been trained by Prussia since she could hold a dagger. She adored the activity, and held great scientific interest in gun powder. Brandenburg often brought her the magical compound for “scientific” fun.

She asked the question, same as always. “Why can't I join battles like you, Gil?”

Prussia answered the same as always. “War changes you. I won't have you suffer that.”

The training fields were behind them now as the mansion drew near. Louise's fire dimmed, her eyes once more to the floor. Gilbert took notice, squeezing her lace covered hand in comfort. “This ball is just a formality. You're an empire now. You can pull a Catherine the Great and force the men to wear tight dresses if you want. Not that... please don't make me wear that though.”

“I wouldn't. It's too cruel.” Louise promised this, daring to smile.

Prussia pinched her cheek in kindness. “There we go. Ready to rule the world already.”

The younger sister smiled, but it was false. All she wanted to do was train with the other soldiers and maybe wear pants. She might actually kill for pants.


	4. Chapter 4

**Fall, 1907**

Louise stormed into her chamber, letter in hand. She was so furious she couldn't describe it anymore. The Harden–Eulenburg affair had set the Germanic gossip world on fire. No other news was interesting enough. Apparently two gay men were capable of hijacking a very crucial diplomatic party she planned for weeks.

_No one was taking her seriously._

The angered empire had been unable to crawl out of her brother's niche glory for years. Fact of the matter was, she was not respected as her standard gender. Even Austria ignored her, despite his own marriage to Hungary falling apart. They fought the entire time they visited German festivities.

The final insult had been France himself. Louise instinctively hated the stylish figure without prompting. His vanity, ego, and sheer pretentiousness wouldn't die. Despite going through revolution and several military spats, the greasy imperialist was still so irritating.

This latest diplomatic gathering was a blazing disaster. France insulted how Louise ate. The southern most Italian brother flirted with her like she was an object. Spain drank everything that hit the table, carried out after the party. Austria wouldn't stop making a scene with his wife. Prussia wouldn't stop trying to woo Austria's wife.

Where was Louise in all of this? As a “lesser woman of the table” she was ignored. Her opinion had never made it out of the room, despite hosting on a stringent budget. Politics was a man's world, and she wasn't allowed to play. At best, she would become Hungary. Elizabeth was miserly creature that once terrorized the land with her strength, now trapped in corsets and politics. 

It was very likely this was Louise's fate, chained in arranged marriage. She wanted none of it.

Peeling off layers, dress structure, and front lacing corset, the determined woman was quickly naked before a mirror. She really was a failure of her country. Louise wasn't sexy enough to charm her way out of issues like the northern Italian. She wasn't as experienced as Russia. She wasn't as bloodthirsty as Prussia, whom kept his title almost entirely through battle. Her leader was gravely incompetent as the peasants stewed and grumbled over new ways to murder him.

Beyond all of this, she was cursed as a lesser gender. Well, that was ending today. She did it before and she could do it again. It was easier to dress up as a male when the going got tough. Toss on loose fitting amour and almost anyone could pull it off. Of course, the times were changing.

With firearms now dominant, clunky armour was being discarded in favour of cloth uniforms. This presented a new issue, her annoying boobs. There was no way in hell she was going to pass unless she bound her chest flat.

How hard could it be?

00000

Gilbert didn't understand why the German Empire had stormed off. Everyone was drunk by the main course, and Hungary looked stunning in her court clothes. Granted she told the brash Prussian to die in a fire several times. That was practically flirting for a tenacious Gilbert.

Essentially, it was a very successful diplomatic party. Not a single person was stabbed with a dinner knife.

What was unsettling was how Louise rushed off at the end. The newer empire was not the most adept at court politics, and she made very little impression at her own party. She had been trying to press matters of economy or... Gilbert couldn't remember. He was occupied most of the dinner with artisan beer and braised lamb. That had been a delicious meal.

Arriving at her home, Prussia let himself in. He helped build the place, so he proudly had every right. It was glaringly pragmatic in comparison to the private residences of other nations. Aside from folksy wood art carved by German Empire herself, there was largely barren walls. “Decorating is a waste of my time off.” had been the claimed justification.

Gilbert could hardly imagine his own royal estate like this. There was hardly any paintings anywhere and none of them were Prussia's handsome face!

A trail of shed dress layers dotted the way to Louise's room. Some of them looked stretched in anger. Oh great, now she was mad. It took days for her very silent brand of temper to fade. She held onto these things tightly.

“Louise, oh little bird.” This was sung through the door.

“Go away!” The response was sharp and panicked.

Gilbert perked up at her distress. “Are you injured?”

“No I'm busy! Go away!”

Gilbert had nowhere to be for a few hours. He leaned against the wall beside the door, sibling teasing mode active. “Oh. So you're doing _sex_.”

Louise's outrage was hilarious as it neared in volume. “No! What is wrong with you!?”

Gilbert let out a soft laugh of amusement. His baby sister was obviously a virgin, having taken no interest in anyone. There was vague chemistry with one of the Italians, but it was obviously for business. Everything was business for the dedicated Louise. “Baby sister is doing the sexy times!”

“Stop that teasing right now!”

“Louise and her dream hunk, kissing in a tree!” Gilbert was singing mockingly now, fully aware he sounded terrible.

The door was opened a crack, a cold blue glare peeking out from oil lamp lit depths. “You are sick in the head, Gil.”

Prussia pushed into the room, taking advantage of the chaos. The room was crisp and clean, except for a mess of wide bandages and shirts. Louise hid her half dressed torso shamefully with a rumpled dress section shed earlier.

Gilbert's sharp observations were voiced. Most of his own injuries were from being careless in battle or impulsive duels. “You are injured! Did you duel someone?”

Louise looking away instead, trailing off her answer. “I'm not hurt. I'm trying to bind, you know...”

Gilbert squinted, not understanding.

German Empire rolled her eyes, gesturing to her hastily covered torso. “Trying to flatten my uh... you know?”

The nearly albino nation stood there, cocking his head in confusion.

“My breasts, Gilbert. I'm trying to blind my chest flat.” At admitting the truth, Louise blushed faintly and looked away.

The older sibling stared at an empty wall, silently shocked and embarrassed. He rarely talked about topics of femininity with Louise, that world a mystery to him. He maybe slept around, but it didn't mean he understood the hidden mechanics of the opposite gender. _There had to be a book on this_. 

“Oh, um, is your... chest okay?” Gilbert couldn't do this well, just as embarrassed as Louise.

Louise's defensive answer was a short stab of sound. “I'm fine.”

“I don't know what to say.” Gilbert admitted, partially turned away. There was silence between them, evenly measured by the ticking of a wood carved clock. Thankfully, Louise filled in the void of misunderstanding, even if it was a weak attempt.

“I'm trying to pass as male. I miss going to the training grounds.”

Relief and familiarity came to Gilbert. There was no deep underlying problem here. Little, or perhaps not so little, Louise was bored and craved variety in trainers. Gilbert was pretty fixed in his ways, so this made sense. He faced her confidently, now on solid brotherly ground. “You just want to train?”

Louise's expression darkened a moment, but Gilbert didn't notice. She was moody from time to time, and Prussia was blind the differences. “Yes. I don't want the others to hold back because I'm... a woman.”

Surely this was the only reason, so there was no harm? Gilbert didn't see any, so there wasn't. “Well why didn't you say so?”

The hope was palpable in Louise's voice. “You'll... help?”

“Obviously, I'm the awesome Prussia!”

German Empire sighed, already resigned to Prussia's brand specific idiocy.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (same time period as previous chapter)

Louise did a twirl, show off a new masculine transformation. Her hair was cut short and styled back. Her modest chest was bound flat with a custom corset. Her vaguely female shape was shifted by hidden knife sheathes. All of these blades were below a square black coat with her flag's colours embroidered in.

Last minute military uniform tailoring and help from internal states had resulted in a small audience. Hannover, Brandenburg, and Wurttemberg accompanied Prussia, all in Reich uniform with state branded sashes and swords.

Louise was open minded to their presence, since everyone was temperamental family in the German Reich. They were unified in the end. Everyone had readily agreed the new family favourite would have more political leverage if she passed as male. Louise getting nationhood at all had been an uphill battle of bloody legislation.

Hannover frowned, arms akimbo. “I don't know. I can still tell she's a woman, but...”

Brandenburg hummed, stroking his beard as he scrutinized the being he once cradled in his arms.

Wurttenberg raised expression in realization. “It's the face! It's too pretty!”

All four men in looked at her in scrutiny. Prussia then nodded. “Yeah, her jawline is alright, but the face isn't...”

“Can't I pass as cleanly shaved?” Louise asked, already concerned. She would be equally as attacked in public as a feminine man, no better than where she started.

Hannover shook his head. “Its not that, you're just...”

“Too pretty. Way too pretty. You smell super nice too.” Prussia noted, almost her father some days.

“We can't cut up her face. Unless...” Wurttemberg looked slyly to German Empire.

“ **No.** ” Louise rejected the idea coldly, glaring at the weaker blonde state.

Brandenburg put up his hands in caution. “Okay, so no mutilation. We could – **OH MY GOD GILBERT WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM!?** ”

The reaction was fair, since Prussia had just punched his own sister in the face. German Empire recoiled in pain, clutching her bloody nose. Proudly, Prussia looked to the boys. “I broke her nose! If I reset it bad enough, she'll look awesomely macho!”

Gilbert didn't see the chair that struck him seconds later. Two legs cracked off from the impact. “You stupid ox!” German Empire cursed, fuming as she dropped the broken weapon.

The other states backed up wisely, aware of Louise's buried strength and temper. “You brought this on yourself Gil.” Brandenburg called out cruelly, making no effort to help at all.

“AH YOU HURT SO MUCH!” Gilbert screeched, fighting off his baby sister.

00000

An hour later, five German idiots were outside the royal medical offices. Hannover and Wurttemberg were untouched by the childish fist fight from before. Prussia walked with a slight limp, while Brandenburg and German empire sported black eyes. Louise's improperly set nose stung like angry insects under bandages.

In all likelihood, no one had learned anything. “So... I guess the broken nose helps.” Louise admitted, still grumpy and rough from pain.

“Your voice needs to be lower. Its still too girly.” Prussia chided, hissing from nips of hurt when he moved. “Stop laughing at my expense _Claude_.”

Brandenburg couldn't hide his malicious sibling glee. “No.”

“Like this?” Louise asked, forcing her voice down an octave.

“That's it kiddo.” Hannover gave her a thumbs up. “Now you need to stop smelling like flowers.”

It was true. German Empire did like to be pleasantly clean. She tried to change her frame of mind. She had to be _he_ to pull off this look. _He_ looked around the busy street, seeking a tolerable way to banish the last feminine traces.

 _His_ gaze magnetized to a young boy walking two dogs. Dogs, the fluffiest most lovable creatures. Dogs didn't betray you. Dogs loved you. Love was something Louise desperately craved, a void in her... _his_ heart. _He_ really needed to choose a new name!

“I'm getting dogs. I'll smell like dogs instead of lavender.” German empire announced in forced tone, daring to smile slightly.

The four others looked to each other in agreement. “Yeah that works.” they collectively spoke, not fighting for once like the petty cousins they were.

“Only if we get to help pick.” Prussia objected, more obnoxious than the rest. “You have to name one Berlitz!”

“And Aster!” Brandenburg added on.

“Let's get a bunch of dogs!” Wurttemberg cheered, carried away by the moment. The remainder of the day would be puppies and one collectively shared brain cell. The four legged friend was almost every German state's weakness.


	6. Chapter 6

**1912**

There was low growls of cursing and fresh pretzel bread scents. Gilbert entered the kitchen carefully, for his baby sister was stress baking. Despite being awkward all other feminine attributes, Louise was a terrific baker. It was common to see her producing fresh bread after failed meetings.

The bigger issue was if Gilbert had a sister at all. Lately Louise was spending all her time passing as male. She was getting good enough at it that newer court members were asking if Miss Beilschmidt was absent from her role.

Gilbert was secretly scared. He didn't know what to call her anymore. He worried he had fucked up as a foster parent of sorts constantly. She looked more like Holy Roman Empire every day and it was haunting. Was that old bastard taking over sweet little Louise's brain? Prussia had no idea, since their kind lacked doctors.

“Hello My little schnitzel.” He greeted, slightly less obnoxious than usual. It was the most considerate he could offer. Rounding a corner, Germany was spotted. She... He... Gilbert had no idea how to address the situation. _They_ were becoming very fit, beyond Gilbert's own lithe levels. Germany was turning into a moody hunk at insane rate, taking advantage of nation regeneration.

“Stop it bruder.” Germany ordered, sparing Gilbert a side glance.

“Stop what?” This was spoken with higher anxious pitch.

There was a sigh, then the kneaded dough was left on the counter. There was a rough gesture of hands to Gilbert's cautious posturing. “This. You are treating me like a pile of gunpowder.”

The older brother slumped, dropping the act. He had always been shit at acting. “Louise, I'm trying. First you went... this. Now your pope is abdicating and everything is... different now. We're different now and...”

“I'm not different. I'm who I'm supposed to be. I'm _Germany_.” The other argued, both hands to their own chest.

Gilbert fretted at a distance. “And what is old Prussia to Germany.”

Louise looked almost heartbroken, expression sinking. “I'm... I'm your brother. I need you, Gilbert. War is probably on the way and I can't do this alone. I'm trying to figure out myself here.”

Prussia stepped closer, hopeful. “And you're not mad about... anything you might remember?”

“Nein! I'm going through things and you keep acting weird!” Louise didn't seem angry as she spoke, returning to her bread.

Gilbert let out a giddy noise of relief. “Thank god. I thought this was some thing because you were mad.”

“I'm not mad, but I am asking you something very serious.” Oh she sounded grave, not even an inkling of mirth in her tone.

“What is it Louise?”

“I'm not Louise anymore. Grown men are not named Louise. I am a man after all.”

The pseudo parent didn't take the news well, quick to bite back. “I raised you! You're my little bird! You can't throw away a childhood because you changed your mind! I gave all the love I have left to you!”

At this, Germany burst into genuine laughter. “Oh mein god Gilbert, is that why you... You are ridiculous. I'm not throwing away anything. I'm getting a name change. That's it.”

Gilbert steamed, mad he looked so foolish. “Oh.”

He was picked up like a bundle of sticks in a hug, weighing nothing to his more fit sibling. “You are a bigger fool than me, bruder. I still love you, and I'm grateful you saved me from that field.”

After watching Germany bake bread, Gilbert stopped his childish pouting. “So, a name. I have a bunch of suggestions.”

“Listening.” The other prompted, sitting before him to munch on bread.

“Fritz.”

Germany looked at him flatly. “No.”

Gilbert cocked finger guns. “Wilhelm? Good name, strong name.”

The other man rolled his eyes and kept chewing.

“Wilfritz... Wilfred... Fritz... helm?”

Germany interrupted the drunk smashing of words. “I was thinking... Ludwig.”

Gilbert's jovial attitude deflated. “What?”

“Yeah. As far as I know, no other nations are using that name, or ever have.” Germany prompted innocently. It was true, Gilbert had held back all education of Holy Roman Empire. It was biting him in the ass now.

“Yeah... I got to go. But um. Keep thinking about names?”

“I like Ludwig. I'm going to use it.”

Gilbert paled. _Fuck_.

00000

It was a time of sleep but there was no rest, Gilbert huddled by his oil lamp. He thumbed through another page of his book, pale brows furrowed in concentration. He was reading a thick tome, thumbing over a new page.

The book was his grail of knowledge these past few years. 'The German Guide to Parenting: Battlefield Edition' was a great find. Gilbert almost couldn't believe he paid a team of people to write it. Prussia's winking portrait at the end was a nice touch. He loved getting to the end to see that reassuring face.

Turning to chapter six, he started reading. A sleepy Gilbird was perched on his arm, yellow canary feathers fluffed up. “Chapter six, accepting your child's differences... Look, Gilbird! There's at least three mentions of me in this one.”

The bird chirped sleepily, blinking slowly.

“That's right Gilbird. I did a good job. I'm the best.”


	7. Chapter 7

**1915, Ypres, Belgium**

War was a bitch.

The world was torn asunder as Europe burned with violence. It was the great war, the first of it's kind to reach this scale. Over thirty countries were invested in this fruitless blood sport. Arthur and France had spent so much time in trenches, they might change into moles. Dig trenches, sit in trenches. Attempt rolling artillery advantages, fail often. Sit in another trench.

It was starting to grind at England's sanity. Sitting was just as much a casualty as getting shot. The trenches were soggy from shitty Belgium rain. The rats and close quarters diseases were only a patter away, attracted by the muted chaos.

Most of all, Arthur would kill to go home. He had been here with France enough that he knew the other soldier by smell. A few shots were occasionally fired, but the day was a somewhat silent one. No man's land was speckled with corpses of mortals. Perhaps Belgium herself was out there, lost in the terrain of lost hopes.

England sat on his soggy wooden crate of a chair, a damp wall of earth behind him. Tired eyes locked onto the top of the trench. He didn't dare look away for long, lest the German Reich's men spill over and kill them all.

He lit another cigarette, the third of the day.

France, crouched not far away, chuckled. “You will run out before the evening.”

“Shut up.” England sniped, taking a long drag.

“This is your fault you know.” France's words were exhausted and flat, lacking his usual poncy attitude. There was little to be happy about lately.

England perked a brow at the latest accusation. “Still talking about yourself I see.”

“The sun couldn't set on _your_ empire. You had to be the biggest. You had to be the _best_.”

England pursed his lips, dry as they were. France was not his lover of choice. France was the only one left after the fighting and screaming ended, so they were sharing this post north of Ypres. If anything, tearing Arthur down was Francis's reigning hobby. That was fine. The straw haired Englishman had hobbies.

Francis ragged on. He loved the sound of himself, even at these war muted volumes. “You couldn't help yourself, and you had to piss off the entire German Reich. You couldn't share one part of the world with them.”

The blonde looked over coldly, his gorgeous blue eyes cutting Arthur. They were always eyes of an angel, no matter how ornery their master became. “I blame you for all of this.”

Arthur took another drag, humourless. Sweet nicotine kill him. “You profit as much as I do from imperialism.”

France had no rebuttal for this, lighting his own smoke. They sat in requited misery, fully knowing of each other. The weather was starting to clear up, a stiff breeze coming in from the west. A sound filled the air, a whistling of artillery. It was a thousand trills of a deadly bird, a scream that woke the most tired soldier. The entire trench buzzed to life as hundred of eyes looked to the pale blue sky.

The German front was trying to advance again. Arthur and France scrambled to the walls, gripping rifles in shaky alertness. The last stub of cigarette was flicked into stinking mud that squelched between the wooden floor boards of the trench. God hope it was all mud.

Francis was first to look, squinting beautifully in confusion. The first artillery landed, beginning rolling drumfire. It was a battering of the earth that would go on for days. Deaf to explosions by now, England peeked over top the earth ridge.

The Germans were drowning them in earth shaking artillery, showers of metal. The curiosity lay in how unusually it was playing out. Amidst the scream of exploding artillery shells and earthen dust, there was no shadow of advancing Germans. There wasn't even a hint of actual men in no man's land.

“What are they doing?” was mouthed to France in the deadly sea of noise. A commander didn't start up such a sea of destruction unless he was trying to push troops or achieve something. _Where were the invading troops?_

France shrugged, readying his rifle on the edge. He had to wipe mud and sweat off the older weapon, perching dirty grip on the trigger.

The drum of artillery thundered on and on for minutes, the battlefield becoming too hazy to see across. Alien yellow clouds were pouring out of the badly aimed artillery, drifting towards them like an opaque wall. Up and down the trench line, There was the din of human screams. It seemed some shells had flew the entire stretch from the German side.

Something was wrong.

France was tugging on Arthur's sleeve, beginning to cough and wheeze fiercely. The air stunk incredibly of radish, making England's eyes water and burn. Not understanding what was going on, the struggling immortals ducked back into the trench.

Arthur tried to curse, but his voice was cancelled out by continuous artillery explosions. The frightful yellow fog was now pouring into the drench, tinting the very air brown. In this screaming hell, they both fell to their knees and struggled to breathe.

Lungs burned from the inside. Noses burned. Eyes burned. France weakened to his knees after several minutes of exposure, beginning to vomit out his insides. He cried in agony, tears wet on filthy cheeks. England wasn't far behind, dropping his weapon to claw at his own throat.

Arthur had never experienced alien pain this horrible before. The drumfire continued, but they were helpless as they began to suffocate. Vision grew blurry as Arthur gasped for so much as a shallow breath. After holding off the inevitable, France stilled beside him. There was death twitches, but his face was slack. Arthur wobbled and fell, trying to scream. He tried to breathe. He crawled the short distance to another soldier, failing both previous actions. The human soldier was dead. Everyone was dead.

_If he could crawl far enough... If Arthur could..._

He died in such basal thought.

00000

France had remarkable regeneration, even by nation standards. He jerked back to life when rain pattered on his skin. The sensation was always a jarring one as he adjusted to daylight. There was no more screaming of artillery. He was still in trench hell, laying on dirty planks from before.

Rolling over painfully, France avoided a dry puddle of his own bloody vomit. England was still beside him, so very dead. The odd empire's eyes were still dull and dry looking, likely open for hours. Dry eyes were such a bitch after dying.

Any hope of escape was null. France would be weakened for several hours, too tired to defend himself. Down the line was several German soldiers. They were chatting softly as they looted the dead for ammunition, dark uniforms tan from dirt. A nearby soldier was conferring with a superior, a very familiar one.

France felt more sick than before at the voice. Gilbert Beilschmidt was worse than rats. He would not die, no matter how many times France tried. The pompous Prussian took off his trademark Pickelhelm, loud as always. It was likely a habit from screaming over artillery in trench warfare.

“Very good! Where is he?” Gilbert praised in German, lead by subordinates. They stopped at England's corpse, kicking it over. “Awesome. Load this one onto a stretcher and carry it back to base. But for now...”

Gilbert stuck a long dagger in England's heart. It was a guaranteed way to stop fellow nations from reviving for days. France knew this well, having employed it on others. Finished the grisly task, Sharp red eyes ghosted over France. Prussia smiled coldly.

“So we meet again Francis. Are you having fun? I'm having fun.”

God in heaven, Francis wanted to die all over again. Gilbert gloated as much as he did, and it was terrible to be on the receiving end. A familiar voice interrupted what was sure to be a ten minute monologue.

France glanced over, then paled. The voice was familiar because It belonged to a very familiar man. This man was supposed to be dead, because France shot him, cut him up, and set him on fire a century ago.

Holy Roman Empire strolled over, looking as fresh faced as ever after a century. How was he not dead? No one, not even a nation, could survive being hacked apart and burned to ashes. Where was he hiding for so long? Shocked and terrified, Francis let out a croak of noise.

“Bruder, stop taunting him.” The living ghost spoke. It sounded like Holy Roman Empire. It looked like him. It couldn't be him.

“Ludwig, you are no fun. But look, a surprise! France is awake.” Gilbert gestured with glee to his new prize. “Should you, or I?”

The living ghost even had Holy Roman Empire's name, along with that humourless flat line for an expression. “I will have the honours. After all, I have the manners of a hog.”

As the other man aimed his rifle at France's heart, the prone romance nation had a flash of realization. He had said that line before, to a Miss Beilschmidt. German Empire was supposed to be female. Who was this man? Prussia didn't have many direct siblings left, perhaps five cousins at most. France and his nation ancestors made sure of this.

France managed one small string of words, throat still stinging. “Holy Roman Empire?”

The nation in question frowned coolly. “I am Germany.”

**BANG**


	8. Chapter 8

**1919, Berlin**

A year and a half ago, things had been so amazing for Ludwig. He was primed to conquer Europe. Granted the new superpower was perhaps too cocky and underhanded. He only learned by watching his more successful rivals. Why were the tactics he employed suddenly so terrible under his boss's command?

The kaiser was only reaching for what every other empire had. The god given right to land and wealth. France was probably enslaving half the pacific by now. Oh how shocking of Germany to wish for a real chance at economic competition.

When Russia buckled under public pressure and withdrew from war, Germany was certain this was in the bag. That was when America showed up. The barking American's allegiances, as well as his bite, were very strong.

It was a bitter blow to surrender not long after. What was worse was the immeasurable reparations all the German peoples had to pay. It was a number so high, Ludwig was shocked. A year after the treaty of Versailles, Ludwig could feel his economy being crushed like a grape by France.

Every citizen worked if they could. Even Ludwig was set to tasks. Woodworking, a passion he had long held close to his heart, was now his shackles. When Ludwig wasn't tangled in debt crushed politics, he was carving pieces for cuckoo clocks in his private shop. He barely had time to admire them before they were sent away to be sold.

It was another Thursday, ten hours in. Ludwig had several rough planks to plane smooth. Setting aside an abused claw hammer, he stood to stretch and pop his joints. The severe blonde visually browsed his chisel collection, pondering if he should begin detail work on other areas.

There was a distinct snap of thread, muffled by sensible cotton shirt. Ludwig was instantly alert with panic. The lamp was shut off in a hurry as he fled to his room. There was the slightest ease of pressure around his constricted chest, confirming the worst fear. This had only happened once before, at the beginning of the great war.

Ludwig's custom corset, only constricting his upper chest, was failing. In wartime desperation, the proud German had fixed this garment in the field. His own stitching was akin to barbed wire when beside such artistry. Still, the fix had lasted years.

“No no no, please don't tear!” Ludwig cursed, stopping to peel off his workshop apron. There was no time, as another stitch popped. Rolled up shirt perched in his teeth, he unlaced the front fastened binder with fearful haste.

The skin coloured custom corset fell to the ground with silence. It's condition showed, pitiful and wane. The war had stained parts of it brown with blood and dirt.

“Please be okay, please be okay...” Anxious whispers escaped Ludwig as he examined the garment. It was stretched and faded. The binder was well and truly done. With this soldier lost in the battle against gender, there was only one back up left.

Ludwig had to get measurements for a new specialized corset. With only three people in the entire world aware of his acute dysphoria, the troubled German had dreaded this day. Glancing down with hate, those long compressed breasts were sagging and neglected. Good. They deserved their fate. After years of repairing his own abused binder, it was time to visit the source.

It was time to go to Venice.


	9. Chapter 9

**1919, Venice (fall)**

The shop was lit by frenetic white light, dazzling Ludwig even from afar. He had electric lighting for a few scant months, but it was ripped away by debt. Venice glittered with electric light like a jewel, shining off canal water and old brickwork. In a maze of waterways, Ludwig managed to to find the mecca of tailors.

It was a shop so prestigious, the tailor's name was unknown to the public. How Gilbert once wrangled Ludwig appointments was unknown. Nobility and even the fallen kaiser had to wait months for a _letter_ from this wizard of thread.

Lured near by the magical shop, A door jingled as Ludwig entered. It was near claustrophobic with fabrics, work shelves, and portraits. One was old and smoke damaged, striking familiar. It was a rather terrible picture of a rabbit. In comparison to the oil paintings around it, the rabbit looked painted by child hands.

_Why was it so familiar?_

Past all the distracting displays, Ludwig neared it. He needed to touch it, but he didn't know why. The trance was snapped by vicious Italian. Ludwig only picked up the first word, having struggled with the language for years.

“ **IDIOTA!** ” The passionately angry Italian proclamation startled Ludwig. A lean tanned male emerged from a back room, showering him in furious likely curses. Ludwig blinked in confusion, backing up slightly.

Sharp eyes of olive green flickered over Ludwig's war worn coat. It displayed his high rank in the now disbanded biplane reconnaissance unit. There was a tired sigh, then unpractised German that bounced too much from Italian accent.

“What the fuck are you doing in this shop!? It's the Spanish flu out there! Are you trying to get killed?”

Relieved to understand, Ludwig took off his coat and fabric cap. He had intentionally dressed like a commoner to slip by the prying gaze of his top most boss, Friedrich Ebert. The angry Italian paled as much as one could, eyes wide.

“I had an appointment waiting for four months. I'm supposed to be here.” Ludwig flashed the enigmatic business card as he spoke boldly, the simple rectangle embossed with a beautiful gold 'F'. There was an address on the back, long smudged by dirty carpentry fingers.

The horribly unfriendly shop keep reacted poorly. “How in hell are you alive?”

Ludwig furrowed a brow, squinting in concern at the man. “Are you okay?”

“You were chopped up and set on fire! What curse of witch craft did you use!? Do you have any idea how fucking sad Feli was? You can't just waltz in here with those stupid blue eyes after a _century_ and –”

Germany cut off the nonsense being nearly screamed at him. “I came here for a tailoring appointment. I'm not in a mood to be screamed at.”

The stranger fully paused his cutting tirade of nonsense with pursed lips. A finger perched on lips in thought, then pointed at Ludwig. “You don't know who I am.”

Ludwig shrugged. “I know you a little. Prussia's pre-war conferences were popular... Lorenzo? Lov... Lovino? I'm terrible with names.”

The shock of before had faded to disgust. Italians were perplexing but entertaining to watch, at least for Ludwig. He was a secret fan of the entire culture, although he wouldn't admit such things. “You don't remember that?” the man gestured to the rabbit painting on the wall.

Ludwig stared at the mediocre piece, fascinated. “It... seems familiar. Do you know the artist?”

The hot tempered shop keep hid his face in his hands. “This is unbeilevable. Un-fucking-believable. Do you even know who you are?”

Germany was fed up with this conversation. No wonder Italy's economy was struggling when businesses were run like this. “I am the representative of Germany, and I am not impressed with this place.”

Threat received, the Italian put up his hands in surrender. “Don't go shooting me, I'm... You _really_ don't remember?”

Ludwig glared at him, ready to leave. “You sound insane right now.”

“Okay! I'll go get Feli! Don't be surprised if he freaks out.” With this, the guy returned to the back. There was loud expected conversation with another person of higher pitch. A similar person emerged along with the first. This one looked intuitively kinder, less tanned and hawk eyed. They seemed like obvious brothers.

Handsome brown eyes spotted Ludwig. The new person then screamed a familiar word in Italian. “ **FANTASMA!** ” A small decorative cross was flung at Ludwig's broad muscular frame. It bounced off him harmlessly, clattering on the floor.

“I am not a ghost.” Ludwig replied dryly in his native tongue.

After this, the next reaction was even more inappropriate. The less rude Italian almost knocked Ludwig over in a hug, drowning him in elated smashed German. “It's been so long! How did you survive Napoleon's army!? Don't tell me! We can go and eat little cakes and catch up! You're so healthy now! I can't wait to tell you about –”

For once, the first Italian was helpful. He pried his likely brother off Ludwig, judging from the use of familial grammar. “No, He doesn't fucking remember. Feli, you can't... Come on. Get off him.”

This 'Feli' was held back a moment, then froze. “He doesn't remember?”

“I remember I waited four months for this appointment.” Ludwig promptly protested.

The two brothers looked to each other. Lovino shrugged, and Feli sucked in a wobbling breath. “That's... I... Okay. Go back outside. We're going to start this whole conversation over.” The upset Italian spoke, obviously on the verge of tears.

“You look upset. Maybe I should come back later.” Ludwig offered politely, unsure how to proceed. He twiddled his thumbs awkwardly, aware of how charged this conversation was.

“NO! I run a business. We're going to... start over properly.” Feli insisted, dabbling his face on a handkerchief.

Lovino sighed in exasperation. “Oh my god. This is ridiculous. We live in a opera, Feli. A shitty opera.”

“Shut up! Now, you, go out, wait a minute, then come back in. We're restarting the whole conversation.” Feli barked orders, far from commanding. Lovino seemed to listen to his brother, throwing up his hands in defeat as he was pushed to the back room.

“Okay!” Ludwig agreed, just as annoyed. He dutifully stood outside a moment, pondering if he should leave. His sense of duty wouldn't let him. Ditching an appointment with the most exclusive tailor in Europe would be a bad life choice.

Steeling himself for more energetic Italian madness, Ludwig fixed his hair. Why was he possibly nervous? These people were clearly insane, and yet... That painting, this entire building bugged him in it's familiarity. It was like Ludwig had once seen it in a glossy new printing but for a second. There was probably a logical explanation for all of this.

The door jingled a second time as he entered the premises. “Oh, a shop I have never been in before.” The sarcasm was thicker than Ludwig's accent.

The welcome was warmer this time. Feli waited in his professional vest and tie, looking very clean today. “Welcome to Feliciano's Tailoring. How may I assist you?”

The appointment card was silently handed over, shining gold 'F' glittering from electric lighting. Ludwig chose silence over words. This shop felt vaguely familiar, but not enough to pin down why. It was something that was wrong to identify, very much like that damn painting.

“Measurements or repairing an existing piece?”

“Both.” The blood stained upper corset was hesitantly removed from a cloth travel bag. The Italian accepted it gingerly, holding it at bay with two fingers.

“What did you do to it? It looks like you rolled it in a slaughter house!” The formalities dropped away sharply, familiar Italian dramatics pushing through.

“The great war happened.” Ludwig answered stoically, relieved there was no questions about why he wore a chest compressor.

“This thing should have earned a medal for dying on the front lines! Are these shrapnel holes... and oh my god. The boning on this is warped. You warped it!” The offending garment was thrown in a pile of scrap fabric, unloved. “This will not do. We need a whole new piece done. Go upstairs and sit. I'm going to fix this mess your wearing while we're at it.”

“What?” Ludwig asked in alarm. His fear was shushed away as he obeyed cautiously. Upstairs was far less claustrophobic with a series of large mirrors.

Staring at old portraits on the floral wall, Ludwig came to a stunning realization. This was _Feliciano_ , the northern Italy representative. This was the same guy he did financial dealings with via letter for two years. This was the same weakling he captured at the start of the great war.

It was pitiful how bad the Italian was at combat. He was captured by mere conversation, not a shot fired. Now the very same man was serving him as a tailor. Ludwig sweated nervously at the thought of the comically weaker male taking his revenge. If he could at all, given how pathetic Italy's military was.

Ludwig had to clear the air now. He had a compulsory need to do so. Feliciano returned with several worn catalogues in hand. Ludwig wondered internally if he could pick up the delicate looking tailor. Would that be fun or offensive?

“I captured you under orders in the great war.” The words were just like shrapnel, obtrusive and terrible.

The Italian looked away in almost dismissive fashion. “I'm aware.”

There was no time like the present, so Ludwig went for the truth. “Why are you willing to assist? You could refuse me now, or take revenge.”

After a long uncomfortable stretch of silence, Northern Italy's surprisingly fierce gaze met his. “I take pride in my work, Mr. Germany.”

Ludwig found the room stuffy, swallowing. That was... _admirable_. “Good.”

Measurements were taken of the legs and waist, inseam and all. Ludwig, normally cautious of others touching him, was dealing with the treatment well. Everything was fine until Feliciano stood expectantly before him, gesturing to the still worn coat. “I need you take that off.”

The German blushed and clutched his coat tighter. “No.”

“How am I going to make you a custom corset if I can't get proper measurements?”

The question was a fair one, but Ludwig was terrified. Only other German states had seen him vulnerable and that was seven years ago. “Work off the old one.”

The tailor was disgusted, as if such a suggestion was poison. “That tortured thing will give me tetanus.”

Ludwig rolled his eyes, relaxing his posture. “It will not give you tetanus. You're being dramatic, Feli.” The sentence fell out of him with ease. A sickeningly strong sense of deja vu returned, making the German lock up.

Feli wasted no time, smiling and yanking the ratty coat off. His plan was foiled by a baggy sweater. “Oh come on! I need five measurements and we're done.”

“No! I have a medical condition! I swear I'll defend myself!” Germany knew he was being a childish brat, but this was his great secret. His original gender was a burdensome story he could never completely kill.

Feliciano was not to be dissuaded. Unlike other nations, he moved away from the forceful route. He batted his eyelashes in innocence, entirely effective. “I won't judge a thing. We are here on a professional basis, for a legitimate service.”

Blushing faintly, Ludwig stared at the wooden floor. He had to respect logic. The fact that Northern Italy knew exactly what tactic to use was unsettling. Feliciano was a total baby in combat, but he was socially keen. “I... guess.”

“So. Five measurements, then you're free to go.”

At this, blue eyes met brown. Italy was harmless. He was little more than a lifting weight with fashion sense. Still, Germany needed to be in some control again.“This is confidential. You will tell no one about this.”

Feliciano nodded, looking too eager. Ludwig sighed and took off his knitted green sweater. This was it, the last layer. It was an off white tank top with the chest binder on top. Truly miserable, the front lacing was undone with adept fingers. After this, two knives and a pistol were unbuckled and placed on the ground. Germany honestly felt naked without all the protection.

Handed the worn garment, Italy inspected it with intense interest. It had seen no battle unlike the other one, but it was still long due to be replaced. “This one. Why is it so stretched out?”

Germany hid under his army coat to escape scrutiny. “It's a little tight.”

“The stitching looks horrible. I _did not_ make this. Okay roll up part of the shirt, I need to see if this left marks.” Fully in his element, the normally useless Italian took charge again. Ludwig hesitated, then obeyed. The Italian was clearly a professional, to be trusted in clothing affairs. He was charmingly dressed in his own craft.

Feliciano took a peek at Ludwig's battle scarred backside, screeching Italian in offence. The German didn't have to see it to know why. The modified corset had left deep imprints, semi permanent stripes of bruise. Ludwig knew it wasn't supposed to scar like that. He had been so much more frightened of humans blabbing that he dealt with the inconvenience.

“This is unacceptable! How can you stand living with this garbage and... I can't believe it!” Feli angry was more amusing than his usual state. The ancient representative was so passionate. “Get dressed, I'm bringing Lovi in.”

“What?” Ludwig sputtered, alarmed. He dressed quickly, uneasy at what he triggered.

An entire conversation was yelled down the stairs in heated Italian. Ludwig spoke up bravely, unsure what was going on. “Is anyone going to tell me what's happening?”

Lovino appeared from downstairs, arms heaped with fashion magazines. They bowled clean over the customer in their native tongue, truly like brothers. Finally, the angrier Italian spoke in German again. “You are going to look stylish, instead of wearing wartime garbage.”

How dare they have the audacity! “This coat has survived battle, it is an honourable choice.”

Both tailors rolled their eyes. Lovino berated him again. “Blood stains do not look good!”

Feliciano meanwhile, roved Ludwig's fit figure with enigmatic eyes. “You'll be sharp. Sexy. Women will throw themselves at you.”

The German was unsettled by their eager attitudes. He didn't like women that way, and felt uncomfortable about this visit. The nagging sense of deja vu was unsettling. “I don't want any of that.”

“You'll look powerful.”

“Handsome, even.”

“Instead of looking like garbage.”

Ludwig shrank into his coat slightly. He was certain he had made a massive mistake. The Italy representatives were not as harmless as most believed.


	10. Chapter 10

**1919, Berlin (winter)**

Two months later, Prussia let himself into the large home. Germany could never stop his sibling from traipsing in at any given time. It was futile to assert control, like grasping at wind. The pale moron entered with song, only slightly muffled by the building.

It was now the winter of 1919, but the worst of the Spanish flu was still ravaging the world. Getting packages past customs was a nightmare ever since the mailman died. This make it all the more magical when Prussia entered the wood shop, brandishing Italian tailoring under protective covers.

“Lud! It came! Look, the packaging looks so expensive!” The semi parental figure crooned, a scheming grin on his face.

Ludwig looked up from the detailed clock frame he was gluing. He barely paid mind to the noisy representive. “Oh. Okay.”

The package was damn near thrown at him. “Try it on already!” Gilbert commanded, forever impatient. “Stuff by Feli is going to look like two hundred marks!”

“Well...” Ludwig trailed off, twiddling his thumbs after setting down a chisel.

Gilbert paused his enthusiasm, squinting in suspicion. That or he had lost his prescription glasses again. Time was not kind to the cocky Prussian in this new century. “How expensive was it?”

The terrible news finally had to be revealed. “Feliciano is mad we put him in a prisoner's camp... so he tripled the price.” Prussia would not relent his drill sergeant glare, until Ludwig finally spilled the beans. “It was 630 lire.”

“ **What!** ” Prussia exploded at this. “Do you... you have any idea how bad the exchange rate is right now? How much we owe to everyone? That's... I thought you were the sensible one!”

Ludwig didn't know what to say. Gilbert as loving as he could be, didn't understand feeling so... wrong. Hating your own reflection for a century, unable to pin down why. Standing in the full length mirror, draped in half assembled suits, Ludwig could see who he was meant to be. It was an image far from completed. Ludwig never saw so much as a finished shirt before he had to run back to Berlin.

The potential was there in Italian cottons, thread, and dyes. That was all that mattered. For finally seeing himself in that mirror, Ludwig would pay 1,000 lire. He would pay in iron and blood. He didn't care what the price was to become whole.

“I'm not refunding it.” Germany stated evenly, taking the three hangers of clothes from Prussia.

The older brother rubbed his temples in exasperation, then sighed. “I don't understand, but... try them on. They better look amazing.”

“I'm certain they will.” Ludwig was so sure of this, he swaggered out of the shop with confidence. Prussia milled about in the kitchen, probably eating all the honey bread while Germany dressed. After roughly twelve minutes, Ludwig emerged triumphant.

He dared to smile, dressed in dashing blacks and reds. Everything fit him perfectly, honing his shape to a masculine ideal. Put simply, he could mistaken for a handsome model. Feliciano's tailoring magic was truly extraordinary.

Prussia dropped the bread he was gracelessly destroying, shocked. The four dogs destroyed any traces in seconds. “Ludwig. You look... fancy.”

“I know. Look, he even left room for an ankle gun holster!” As Germany gushed praise in deadpan tone, he showed off bleeding edge fashion. Even the most miserly of nations would have to see these clothes for what they were. It was stunning art.

Gilbert's expression became guarded. “I have to go.”

“Is something wrong? You haven't seem the other two outfits.”

“No! No, I left the office early to see this and I really should get back.” Prussia offered a trademark smirk. Germany didn't know what to make of the shift in mood. His older brother was difficult to read with so much ego keeping him aloft.

Today, Ludwig gave Gilbert the benefit of a doubt. “Okay. I'll see you for dinner?”

“Tomorrow, little bratwurst!” Prussia called out, already fleeing out the front door.

00000

Prussia sat in troubled silence, Gilbird perched on his arm. The immortal canary was incredibly dull, attempting to preen his snow pale hair. The tired soldier idly stopped the bird from climbing up his arm. Time worn and frequently exhausted, Prussia was starting to feel old. If the other nations realized how run in he really was, they would destroy him. Despite this, Prussia had a regimented beauty and fitness routine to keep him top condition.

He had to be strong. There lie the problem of the evening. Complex emotion burgeoned beneath rigid composure. Gilbert had been putting off accepting the truth for years. He was awesomely good at repression after all.

In 1907, Louise's little dress up phase had been a novelty. During spring of 1908 had been the very last public appearance of Louise Beilschmidt. Some day she would tire of this trend, Gilbert had hoped. It had been seven years, verging on eight, since this madness began. It had been a war since this started, the biggest ever witnessed by humanity.

Gilbert swallowed his grief, knocking back another stein of beer. He drank another. He ran out, yelling at estate staff to bring more.

Prussia's famous emotional walls crumbled as he became truly sauced at his writing desk. The whole office was more sparse these days, many historical keepsakes auctioned off to pay crushing reparations. He gave up and let the canary sit in his hair as he drank.

“G-gilbird. She's gone.” His words were stained with druken emotion, his heart aching. “I lost my baby girl, my fraulen. I was... I fucked up somehow and My Louise... is gone.”

The most awesome bird ever chirped, now nesting on Gilbert's head.

“I did the best I could and Louise left me, like all the others do. Fucking holy Roman jackass, came back, he's... He took over my baby girl's brain!” Openly sobbing on the desk, Gilbert let out ten years of pseudo parenting terror. He had tried so hard to make things right this time. He had a fresh slate with HRE, right from baby state. Even with this advantage, he absolutely flopped as a parent.

Worst of all, he was supposed to be kinder and understanding. Gilbert was supposed to take his only real family completely switching gender like it was fine. It was not fine. It was really messed up and confusing.

If Gilbert ever came back as a girl, he would have owned the hell out of it. He would have become a terror of politics and blade. There was nothing wrong with being a girl or a boy. Power didn't know gender, it only knew awesome fear! Within this tight circle of reasoning, Gilbert could not grasp why Ludwig was doing any of this.

_There had to be a book for this._

Gilbird warbled intermittently as he groomed his white haired master. Gilbert would privately drown his sorrows in alcohol for two more hours before passing out cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Try not to judge Gilbert too harshly. He's trying.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **There is domestic Nazi references in this chapter. This is your final warning if such things bother you.**

**1933**

President Paul von Hindenberg's announcement sent jitters of anticipation throughout the many Germanic states. Adolf Hitler was now in power by popular vote, enthuisiastic as ever. For every voice against the new leader, there was a crowd of approving nods and cheers. The people had spoken, in this case rather loudly.

Ludwig could feel it in the crowd as his new boss and chancellor made his first proper public address. Gilbert was in attendance at the Nazi rally, as curious as Ludwig about their new Chancellor. Adolf Hitler was certainly passionate and motivated as he spoke to his people.

The speech was a lengthy one. Admittedly, Ludwig drifted a little despite how inspiring it all seemed. Gilbert was listening closely, squinting as he did so. The stubborn fool lost his glasses again. These past few years Gilbert was stranger than ever, engrossed in his work. When he wasn't slaving away on a new thing, he was studying the new science of the human brain.

The intensity Gilbert scrutinized this budding hobby with was unsettling. At least he was showing up to dinner again. Ludwig caught a few lines of the speech, setting his eyes back on the man of the hour.

“The government wants to work – and it will work. It was not this government which led the German nation into ruin for 14 years. This government wants to lead the nation to the top once more...”

Ludwig had been to other social engagements with the charismatic politician. He wondered about Feliciano, tuning out a lot of the rally. The friendly Italian have been over a lot in fourteen years. Both Italians had guest rooms in Ludwig's spartan home, though it was now less modest. Lovino and Feliciano were upset at how bland their rooms were. They immediately attacked Ludwig's house with wall paper and throw pillows, exactly when he was away at work.

Hitler wrapped up his wordy proclamation. “True to the order of the Field Marshal, we shall begin. May Almighty God look mercifully upon our work, lead our will on the right path, bless our wisdom, and reward us with the confidence of our people. We are not fighting for ourselves, but for Germany!”

With this, the man soaked up the applause. Ludwig was sated, mostly sure this boss was probably not a failure. The last batch didn't turn out a good performance. It was hard for anyone to look good when paying back France billions of dollars in reparations. That greasy European rat was nothing but a thorn.

“Gil, we should go. I don't like leaving the dogs alone too long.” Ludwig tugged on his brother's sleeve.

Gilbert sucked in a breath, looking around him at so much life. “You go ahead, I want to meet the guy. Get a feel for what we're stuck with. Flowery speeches aren't my thing.”

Ludwig cracked a smile. “So it's different when you monologue at council members.”

Prussia cocked two finger guns at Germany and smirked. “You get it! I'm clearly superior. I'll be back for dinner.” With a last wave, he merged into the emptying crowds.

Hours later, Gilbert returned with obnoxious sound. All four dogs lost their collective minds and ran off to greet him. “Oh snitchzel! I return with good tidings!”

Ludwig was setting up the dining table, unmoved. A modest dinner of game hen with mashed potatoes was featured on two plates. “Is this good tiding about washing your grubby hands?” This was casually yelled over his shoulder.

Gilbert whined from the entrance way like a snobby teen. “Ludwig, the Spanish flu was like forever ago.”

“Wash your hands before dinner!” Ludwig yelled in drill sergeant voice, the only tone that worked.

Gilbert stomped off to complete entry hygiene, then raced over. The dogs were on his heels, eyeing a gift basket full of tasty goods. It had a Nazi party ribbon laced around the wicker handle. Gilbert had already bit a chunk out of some fancy sausage. “Look Ludwig! Look! I got free rally swag! Isn't it the best gift for the home?”

Ludwig scrutinized the bounty, then grabbed a small cheese wheel. Peeling back the wax seal, he took a bite. God it was so good. Cheese was terrifyingly expensive, had been for years. “Yes, It's acceptable.” Germany answered after swallowing his food.

Finally sitting, the brothers dined. Ludwig spoke up first as he cut up food. “So, did you meet the chancellor?”

Gilbert spoke as he stuffed his face, crumbs flying. Ludwig didn't mind much, since the dogs were catching it on the floor. “Oh yeah. We met and he's a fun guy. I think he's going places. Awesome places.”

After a bite, Ludwig swilled his beer glass in thought. “You don't think he came across as aggressive?”

After a long drink of pale ale, Gilbert dabbed his face. “I guess, but that's what you need right now. A real boss instead of a puppet. He has vision.”

“Well...” Ludwig hesitated, then dismissed internal concern. Gilbert was over one thousand years old if the tribe stages counted. He had centuries of wisdom when Ludwig was just a baby. It was unwise to doubt this hierarchy for the time being. “I trust your opinion. If he's a good guy, he's good guy.”

“Oh probably. Cheers to our bright future!” Gilbert lifted a glass in celebration.

Ludwig met the motion with his own. “Cheers!”


	12. Chapter 12

**1936, Fall**

Germany lay in bed, the dark of night cloaking the room. He rolled to one side, stopped by two dogs. They snored in rest, his only true companions for almost thirty years. Ludwig was thankful to God in heaven all his pets had stayed immortal by his side. Replacing them all every ten years would break his heart.

Rain pattered on curtained windows. Ludwig sighed, rolling the other way. The edge of the bed was closer than expected in the dark. It was a phantom drop that spooked Germany's groping arm, jolting him. Well, the pack had pushed him closer to the edge than expected.

With a final grumble of an empty stomach, Ludwig conceded defeat to a wandering mind. He left bed, grabbing a older corset. It was loose and well used, but the frugal German couldn't bear to throw the thing away. It actually had noted sentimental value.

Feliciano had made it custom, thankfully at more reasonable prices after the first visit. The garment was done in enough that it was assigned to inside the house wear. Ludwig's crushing body dysphoria was only sated if he had most of his masculine efforts maintained. He felt incorrect without his chest contained and his posture firm. The thought of death was more inviting than reverting to what he was before 1908, _feminine_.

Sneaking along memorized floor plan in the dark, only one dog was alerted to it's master's stealth. Blackie the Dachshund trailed behind sleepily, yawning wide with pearly white teeth. They both ended up in the kitchen. It was here that Ludwig unbuttoned his plain sleeping top, donning his corset. With a quick lace up and some shifting, He was once more whole.

Now that that issue was out of the way, Ludwig needed a snack. Blackie woke up instantly at the crinkle of paper. Old bread and some cheese was pulled out of dry storage. Not a single crumb survived the floor.

“Good girl Blackie.” Germany whispered, scratching behind silky flop ears. The goofy little wiener dog gave a lazy tail wag. She was already yawning and looking for a place to curl up. The second Ludwig settled in his study to write a letter, the dog was napping again.

With a soft smile, Ludwig picked up a ball point pen. He was finally used to the newer objects after an era with fountain pens. Ball points lacked old school charm, but at least they didn't explode randomly or drip.

The very reason Ludwig woke up in the night at all was difficult to document. He was restless despite having purpose. He was almost cold in his soul, and no puppy could warm it. Germany was certain he was devastatingly lonely, but the conclusion was absurd. He had the pack to love him, and Gilbert. Ludwig's own states mailed him work stuff, and visited at least twice a year.

There was no logical reason to be this lonely!

Germany was here all the same. It was another night of chilling heartache for nothing, gazing out a window. He was inventing reasons for people to visit him, and the stoic blonde knew it. Who would want to visit him anyway? Hitler was really starting to revive the economy. The energetic chancellor was also pissing off a lot of neighbouring countries to do it. It was a political minefield to visit other nations anyway. Even if Ludwig thought of some excuse, he might not be welcome.

_What would Feliciano do about this?_

The thought was a common one. Northern Italy was always popular, and charming, and good at cooking... sometimes so funny Ludwig thought he might burst into laughter. He never did that normally. This fountain of sudden praise made Ludwig burn with blush. He looked at the rambling nonsense he had finished scrawling.

The letter was ridiculous, half formed compliments and butchered grammar. It was balled up in a crunch of paper and dropped in a waste bin. Hiding in his own buff arms, Ludwig steamed from indecision.

Germany absolutely was not attracted to Feliciano. He did not like him in any other capacity than work. It was weird and gross and the brunette wasn't even... It didn't matter what Italy was into. There was nothing to this beyond business. Ludwig had admired the guy's style and repose for years.

Would it be rude to show up without warning in Venice? A letter didn't feel appropriate anymore. Was it insane to show up at another nation's door, even in good relations? Germany's restraint was tested as he sat, tense in concentration.

Gilbert wouldn't know what to do. France would know exactly what to do. Germany had shot him at point blank range in the last war. They were understandably not on talking terms. Austria was as blind as Ludwig about friendships. Everything was a power play for the pretentious musician.

As a newly passionate mechanic, there was only one way to approach this. Ludwig didn't fix a car engine by looking at it. He tore it open, with deep investigation. He learned how things worked by interaction. All Germany had to was methodically engage Northern Italy, recording his findings.

Recharged with a final plan, the sleepy German returned to bed. Shedding his corset, he dreamed of Venice smiles.

00000

“Oh wow! That's a big boat!” Northern Italy exclaimed, fawning over the super-dreadnought docked in the bay. The weather was perfect for boating, blue skies and cackling sea birds. Maybe Germany was zealous about his latest build. It was slightly over 851 feet of naval power, that he legally wasn't supposed to have floating.

An onslaught of great war treaties wanted Ludwig without so much as a bullet to his name. There was no harm in one... or three dreadnoughts. It was a restoration project, _with really big guns_ , as both Hitler and Ludwig insisted to bullying English Naval authorities.

_Maybe England didn't know about this not so little project._

_Maybe Germany was delighting in his constructive rebellion._

“Oh Luddie we must go to sea on it!” Feliciano crooned, dancing around the end of of the peer. Lovino was less than enthused, judging by his standard array of cutting vocabulary.

“There is no fucking way I am going on this death boat that Mister Potato slapped together. There is treaties and shit going on and he is gallivanting around in a fucking warship.” Lovino was harsh and confrontational, jabbing Ludwig in the chest with an accusatory finger. The gesture was as intimidating as a summer breeze.

“There is free lunch.” Ludwig offered simply, his gaze flat but still welcome to an irate Lovino.

South Italy's intense olivine stare burned into his skin, not affecting Germany at all. Free lunch was a powerful offer. “Fine! I'm only doing it for free wine. I swear to the Pope if I'm a third wheel on some stupid romantic –”

Panicking, Feliciano stifled his brother with hugs while blushing. “He would love to go! Si! We need to grab some things from the shop!”

“I was talking to that stupid horse you have a flaming –” Lovino was dragged away, protesting his sibling's words in undignified screech.

“ **HUGS!** ” Northern Italy interrupted again as they left. Germany watched it all dimly in interest. He observed the sum of all the actions before him as Feliciano and Lovino left his sight. He analyzed it, mystified. The conversation was mulled over again as Ludwig squinted in thought.

Feliciano was always overly eager in his presence, set as a behavioural baseline. This behaviour was likely normal. Ludwig shrugged, and seated himself on a bench to wait. Feliciano liking him back was so absurd! This was just a test drive of a reconstructed ship with friends.

_Was it though?_

Ludwig was uncertain, smoothing out the sleek black wrinkles of his stunning new Nazi party uniform. He had a sinking suspicion he was dreadfully wrong about today. Isolated fears evaporated with the return of Italian frowns and smiles. This Mediterranean culture really was glorious.

Tight manoeuvres, ripping through seaside waves, and laughing with joy. With a few firing rounds of the main gun, testing of the super dreadnought was complete. It was a fortress of maritime art and precision Ludwig couldn't be more proud of.

Sour Lovino had a blast, knocking back wine with two gorgeous female reporters from Berlin. Wearing stylish shades, he recounted battles he never engaged in. “... then I punched that jerk out. One fist. Every other man in that sinking dive knew what was what.”

One reporter smiled and jotted notes as the other fawned over Lovino's exotic accent. Even the German peoples weren't immune to falling for different cultures.

The inconsistencies were glaring, but Germany was in too good a mood to correct them. He had been summoned to drag both Italians to their guests rooms when they became roaring drunk. It was during a visit to Dresden, months earlier. He had punched that other angry drunk out. Ludwig had carried both of their wine swilled asses to bed.

The credit didn't matter. Everyone was having fun. Even Ludwig felt bubbly and joyful despite absolute sobriety. The restless nothing that lurched him awake for weeks was banished in this moment of innocence. He looked to Feliciano warmly, not sure what to say.

“The sunset is so beautiful!” One reporter crooned. “Wolfgang was foolish not to come.”

“Who's Wolfgang?” Lovino asked, caught off guard.

“Oh, Wolfgang is her husband. I came along for company.” The second woman clarified.

Southern Italy looked between both the women. “Are either of you single?”

One giggled, shaking her head. “Nein. I have four children waiting for my return.”

Romano stomped off in a fit, obviously keen to play in more than one sense. All his wooing charm fell away like a brick. “ **FUCK THIS BOAT RIDE!** ”

Feliciano burst into laughter, a sound that made Ludwig feel drunk. He almost laughed too, barely containing himself. “I should have said something earlier.” Ludwig muttered softly, still amused.

Feliciano admired the sunset as well, leaning on Ludwig's arm. It would be a crime to move the lucky limb.“No. He doesn't learn.”

Words were difficult to summon. Ludwig tightened his jaw, hardly immune to the silent romance of a sunset. It was all fine in the end, Italy the first to speak. “When are you going back to Berlin?”

Ludwig shrugged shyly, glancing upward. “I never told them I left.”

Italians were so animated, funny moving art. Feli smiled in delight, hand to his face in surprise. “Luddie, you broke a rule! You are becoming rebellious.”

“I am not.” Ludwig denied instantly. The German still felt slightly guilty about skipping out on work. He was supposed to attend a parade with his boss, then do a political photo shoot. As an immortal nation, Germany was determined not to be well documented. Perhaps he was very wary about open public interaction as well. It was a survival instinct Prussia trained into him.

“Oh let's eat and tour the city! There's a new art show going on.” Feliciano's enthusiasm was like the tide, pulling a stalwart Germany in. He leaned in and gave a coy wink to Ludwig. “Maybe I painted a few of the entries.”

Ludwig already knew the art show would be spectacular when backed by such talent. “Yes. I would like an art show.”

The second the ship returned to port, Germany was dragged along in a montage of high culture. Evening was enchanting in Florence, the city glittering with festive lights and tourist cameras. Cameras were finally within reach of regular citizens this very year, the winding and clicking of Kwanon cameras becoming common in tourist regions. Yet another masterpiece crafted by Japanese hands

The Empire of Japan was beautifully intelligent as well as dangerous. Going into a treaty with the empire of Japan against the terrifying soviet union was a smart move. Germany and Gilbert were both personally scheduling visits in November. It was as early as their second or third visit to the charming island nation, but they were impressed.

They could take no chances with the clearly insane Russia that had crawled out of Romanov ashes. The grace, beauty, and wisdom of past Ivan was replaced with lunacy and grey uniforms. He recanted god. His people had burned books and murdered any nobles still in the country.

Germany might need more new friends yet, as the USSR expanded in red.

A gentle squeeze brought Germany to the present, pressure against his leather gloves. “I was distracted.” Ludwig sputtered, caught unaware. He looked out at the beauty of Florence from the widow's walk of Feliciano's shop and home. It was hard to believe terror could reign in this Italian paradise.

“You've been distracted all night.” Feli was more observant than he let on. “You need to learn fun.”

“I know fun. I know sports, and carpentry, and doggy time." Ludwig scoffed. They both sat on the widow's walk and hung their legs between the rod iron fences.

“You don't know relaxing.” Northern Italy countered, smirking playfully.

Ludwig looked to his favourite companion, blue eyes always having trouble tearing away. “This is true. I don't.”

There was a soft moment of silence, perfectly welcome as the city lay around them. A street musician echoed from four stories down. Feliciano's hand was allowed to stay near, legs touching. Ludwig's heart hammered in his chest. He had never been so lost for words, his composure scrambled.

Things took a unexpected turn as Feli chuckled and leaned on Ludwig. The gloved hand he gripped was cradled, sweaty leather peeled off. It was all nerves, more so than heat. Ludwig hitched a breath, ready to rip his hand away. He felt weak and vulnerable from these simple actions.

“Relax.” Feli ordered, not authoritative in the slightest. Ludwig's brain scattered from nerves as his hand was wiped clean on Northern Italy's shirt. Chewed nails were ragged from stress, the original reason for gloves. Long bony fingers were traced, memorized, as fingers properly intertwined. Callouses borne from woodworking met elegant tailor's hand.

The powerful sentiment, the blazing edge of current unknown, it made smashed words fall out of Ludwig. “Feli... I... I...”

Feli looked to him demurely, brown eyes captivating. Ludwig was a goner, drowning in the tides of whatever Northern Italy was. He was doomed, trapped without escape. He had never been so lost and been helpless. 

“I really like you.” The heavy words were uttered, now hanging for judgment. Ludwig was sure his heart would be stomped to a pulp. He was so certain he was a fool.

Feliciano smiled, so very pleased. “I like you more.”

Ludwig was flush with emotion, rambling slightly. He had no idea what he was doing, but at least things were mutual. “Oh thank god. I was going to die if you said no. I've been so worried about –” His words were interrupted as his face was cradled and tilted downward.

Everything changed. Ludwig's lips were a little dry because of his anxiety. The weather was slightly muggy. The world might burn in another war because of Ivan's clear insanity. Everything gained might yet be lost. None of this mattered.

_Feliciano kissed him, it was good._


End file.
